Page:Poet Lore, volume 28, 1917.djvu/499



A clear night, an icy wind. The snow is red. A thousand soldiers sleep there without a Tomb: Sword in hand, haggard their eyes. Not one stirs. Above, turn and scream a flock of sombre crows.

The cold moon sheds afar its pale flame. Hialmar lifts up himself amidst the bleeding dead, Leaning with his two hands against his broken sword, The purple of the battle flowing from his side.

Hola! Has someone still a little breath Amongst all these joyous, strong and robust boys, Who this morning were laughing and singing in full voice Like blackbirds in the thickness of the bush?

All are dumb. My helmet is broken, my armor Is gashed, and the hatchet has scattered its nails. My eyes bleed. I hear a boundless murmur Like the howling of the sea or of wolves.

Come here Raven, my courageous eater of men, Open for me my breast with thy beak of iron. Thou wilt find out tomorrow that which we are. Take my warm heart to the daughter of Ylmer!

In Upsal, where the Jarls drink of good beer, And sing, clashing mugs of gold, in chorus, With swift wing fly, O prowler of the land, Find my betrothed, and give to her my heart!